paper a whole lot, but I'll be shot if I ever knew that it was jest
aigs."

Jennie was amused, but too hungry to spend much time listening. "You may
call them in," she said, after a glance at the biscuit.

The young man opened the door and said, lazily, "Cap, come to grub."

Curtis was again examining the guns in the rack, "You're well heeled."

"Haff to be, in this country," said the young fellow, carelessly. "Set
down anywhere--that is, I mean anywhere the cook says."

Jennie didn't like his growing familiarity, but she dissembled. "Sit
here, George," she said, indicating a chair at the end. "I will sit
where I can reach the coffee."

"Let me do that," said Calvin. "Louie, I guess you're not in this game,"
he said to the boy looking wistfully in at the door.

"Oh, let him come--he's as hungry as we are. Let him sit down,"
protested Jennie.

Young Streeter acquiesced. "It's all the same to me, if _you_ don't
object to a 'breed," he said, brutally. Louie took his seat in silence,
but it was plain he did not enjoy the insolence of the cowboy.

Curtis was after information. "You speak of needing guns--there isn't
any danger, I hope?"

"Well, not right now, but we expect to get Congress to pass a bill
removing these brutes, and then there may be trouble. Even now we find
it safer to go armed. Every little while some Injun kills a beef for us,
and we want to be prepared to skin 'em if we jump 'em up in time. I
wouldn't trust one of 'em as far as you could throw a yearling bull by
the tail."

"Are they as bad as that?" asked Jennie, with widely open eyes.

"They're treacherous hounds. Old Elk goes around smiling, but he'd let a
knife into me too quick if he saw his chance. Hark!" he called, with
lifted hand.

They all listened. The swift drumming of hoofs could be heard, mingled
with the chuckle of a carriage. Calvin rose. "That's the old man, I
reckon," and going to the door he raised a peculiar whoop. A voice
replied faintly, and soon the buggy rolled up to the door and the
new-comer entered the front room. A quick, sharp voice cried out:

"Whose hat is that? Who's here?"

"A feller on his way to visit the agent. He's in there eatin' supper."

A rapid, resolute step approached the door, and Curtis looked up to meet
the keen eyes of a big, ruddy-faced man of fifty, with hair and beard
as white as wool. His eyes were steel-blue and penetrating as fire.

"Good-evening, sir. Good-evening, madam. Don't rise.